The White Hotel
by stefanie bean
Summary: Hugo and Libby remember their deaths, and a lot more besides. (Part 2 of "Tales from the Bardo," stand-alone one-shots where the Losties journey through the flash-sideways, struggling with themselves, their pasts, and their karma.)


**The White Hotel**

Libby sits before Hugo under warm LA sunshine, and she smells of salt and sand. In a soft voice she says, "I never gave you that second kiss, did I?"

Before he can answer, she leans forward, rolling her mouth over his in wet welcome. Unlike the kiss from a moment before, there's no miraculous flash, no onrush of memories. Just delicious, friendly warmth as his tongue spirals against hers, neither of them caring who sees them on the crowded beach.

He pulls her face close to his, and her green gaze holds him steady as the world shifts like the sets of a stage play getting moved around in between acts. He forces his eyes wide, afraid that if he blinks, he'll see the back of the shabby theater curtain, the zippers in the costumes, the props held together by string and duct tape.

She points towards a stretch of buildings on the waterfront, and gives him an expectant look. "Would you like to... go somewhere? We passed a hotel on the way down." The question hangs in the air for a few heartbeats.

Astonished, flustered, he can't look directly at her as he nods his yes. In between packing the picnic basket, he sneaks brief glances at the tender swell of her breast. He wonders if they slept together when they were alive, and if she liked it.

The White Hotel is a square pile of glass and steel, where dark green shrubs overflow their concrete planters. After the clerk hands each of them a room key, they pass through a soaring lobby. Near the elevators, a faint waterfall of notes comes from a piano in the bar.

Libby points to a sign. "Oh, look, at night they have karaoke."

"So, you sing?" Hugo says. When she smiles and nods, it bothers him that he doesn't know this about her, had never asked.

"You?"

"Like a crow," he answers.

"You don't have to sing well in karaoke. You just have to pick the right song."

The elevator door opens. Inside, Hugo confronts himself everywhere, because the entire elevator is paneled with mirrors, even the floor. Looking down, his baffled expression peers over a billowing shirt that does nothing to hide his broad belly. His own reflection stares down at him from above. It's like being stuck in a box full of light.

As the elevator lurches, his brain does the same. Inside, he desperately recites what he thinks he knows about himself: the lottery win; the honorary business degree from UC at Irvine; the new condo in Bel-Air; the trip to Sydney to open the Mr. Cluck's Australian franchise. The harder he tries to hold on, the more his current life dissolves into mist.

They head down a corridor which never seems to end. How big was this place?

A tall man with a hawk-like face brushes by. At first Hugo takes him for Jack, with his intense expression and slim-fitting black suit. _Jack? Who's Jack?_ he thinks.

The man gives them a swift up-and-down and curt nod before hurrying on.

"Here we are," Libby says. "Room 2308."

The door reveals a spacious suite, all slate gray and burnished steel. A huge bouquet of white roses dominates the glass coffee table. They fill the room with a haunting, delicate scent. Brows scrunched in confusion, Hugo reads the card. "'Congratulations. —Desmond Hume.' Who the hell's that?"

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows. That weirdo from Mr. Cluck's, the one who said, "Go with your gut." Desmond Hume is the reason he's here with Libby right now.

Over at the mini-bar, she pours pineapple juice into two highball glasses. "Whoever he is, the roses are beautiful." She pats a spot close to her on the sofa, and he sinks down, grateful to be off his feet. When she lays her hand on his thigh he trembles a little, but doesn't pull away.

"It comes back in bits and pieces," she says gently.

"I don't wanna remember the bad stuff."

"I know. But I'm here. You don't have to remember it alone."

They sit on the couch, sipping juice and quietly talking. When she shivers a little in the air conditioning, he draws her to his side to warm her. She melts into him, gazing upward, but she looks sad. Did he screw up? What's he done now? "You okay?"

"I'm trying not to think of everything I missed."

He doesn't understand until she drapes her arm across his belly, the gesture close and intimate. "Claire was a lucky girl," she says.

His voice catches like a stuck hinge. "I remember burying her."

"I'm so sorry."

He draws in a deep breath. "It was sad, yeah, but she was ninety-six. Everybody was there, grand-kids, great-grand kids." He wipes his eyes, blinking back tears. "I let myself get old for her."

"That was kind of you."

"Not really old, though, 'cause it didn't work that way. Just let my hair go white and grew some wrinkles. So she wouldn't feel bad."

She sits up, serious. "You looked so forlorn in the restaurant. I was afraid you had spent the rest of your life alone."

He barely hears her, engrossed as he is in a new red-gold flash of Jack by the seaside, kissing a dark-haired woman whose name darts in and out of his mind until he traps it. "Kate. Kate was alone."

"Ah." Libby gives him all her attention now, hands folded in her lap.

"Not alone-alone. I mean, she had me and Claire, whenever we could get back. Jack's mom and my parents. Her friends. Her kid." He sees David clear as the day he was born, a tiny new face with eyes blue as stars, the surprising shock of black hair, Claire and Kate crying happy tears in the hospital birthing center.

He breaks like a dam under the pressure. Springing to his feet, he gasps out, "They're here! I got to find them! Jack, Kate, Claire, all of them."

She leaps up too, her voice sharper than he's ever heard. "No!"

"What? Are you kidding? They're my... they're our friends—"

Her gentle hand on his arm gives him pause. "Hurley, there are rules. Just like in running the Island."

That stops him dead. Those were few, simple, and unbreakable. No making somebody fall in love with you. No bringing someone back from the dead. And no giving yourself more powers than you already had.

He can't keep a trace of complaint out of his voice. "But Libby, you came up to me in the restaurant."

"That was different. You were ready."

It shouldn't make sense, but it does. "And they're not."

She doesn't need to answer. As she drifts toward the window, her slumped back tells him everything on her mind. They both stare down at the blue square of pool embedded in the courtyard below, as a shroud of pale gray silence falls over them.

He breaks it when he whispers, "I remember dying."

She cradles him close again, all warm sympathy. "Me, too. Did yours hurt?"

"Nah. It was like falling asleep." Then he flinches with shame, because he doesn't want to make her feel bad. "I know yours did, though. That was like the worst day of my life."

"Mine, too," she says in a dry voice.

There's no point in fighting anymore. He lets it wash over him, all of it, yielding to waves ready to carry him to some unimaginable shore. Libby makes small contented noises from deep within his arms, and he's about to lift her chin for a good long kiss when the room phone rings.

With a sigh he untangles himself. Putting the phone on speaker, he says, "Hugo Reyes here."

"It's Hume, Desmond Hume. I trust you liked the bouquet?"

Libby shoots Hugo a quizzical look. He says, "They're awesome. What's this about, Des?"

"We've got some cargo to pick up at the docks, you and I. A touch expensive, if you ask me. Bring $125,000 in cash."

"Cargo?" Libby says with a chuckle in her voice. "What are you, Mr. Hume? A drug dealer?"

"Very funny," Desmond says, clearly unamused. "And Hurley, don't forget to change into something a bit more formal than beach-wear."

"I'll have to swing by home first—"

"No, you won't. Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes with the money."

If Hugo didn't think Desmond was crazy before, he's convinced now. "Where'm I supposed to get over a hundred grand in twenty minutes?"

Desmond's smile leaks through the phone. "From your convenient bank branch right around the corner."

Hugo's about to ask if Libby can come along, when Desmond says, "Tell Ms. Smith to stay put, as someone's coming to call for her as well. Be seeing you, brother."

The phone goes dead.

"Hurley, look," Libby calls from the bedroom. For an instant he flushes at the sight of the king-sized bed with its fluffy down comforter, its inviting pile of pillows, how it beckons him to bury himself in all that softness, and not alone, either.

Libby holds the closet door wide open, her mouth round with astonishment.

Clothes hang on the rack, his and hers. Three choices await him: a brown button-down shirt with dress slacks, an Oceanic Airlines jacket, and a pinstriped suit. He reaches for the suit because a chill runs up his spine when his fingers brush against the Oceanic jacket. Not yet, something inside seems to say. But soon.

"Oh, what a pretty dress." Libby holds up a strapless green one, but instead picks something high-necked with a long, gray skirt. She lays it out across the bed, then sits on the corner with the same expectant air she had when inviting him to join her on the couch.

He's not his own man, however; he's Desmond Hume's now, for however long it takes. But neither this suite in the White Hotel nor this bed are going anywhere. Not for a little while, at least.

"Later," he whispers.

 **(A/N: I decided to post these as separate one-shots; sorry for any confusion. Thank you so much, you who read and comment.)**


End file.
